HUMOR

by Sally Sheklow

BY THE BOOK

Maybe the manual should come with instructions

Rosie. Ellen. Chastity. Candace. Melissa. k.d. Martina. Today, there is a veritable romper room of famous, out-of-the-closet role models for young lesbians. When I was coming out in the mid-1970s, all I knew about how to be a lesbian was the instruction manual inside my head.

According to The Manual, dykes were tough. They wore rugged clothes, cut their hair short and knew how to spit. They acted like the mean prison matrons in old black-and-white movies. Those burly bull daggers were so sinister they intimidated even the men, which was exactly what I wanted to do.

I needed rent and grocery money so I was selling my house trailer. I had paid $500 for it back when I thought living alone in a trailer out in the boonies was what lesbians did-not the only time The Manual steered me wrong. I needed the $500. A guy called, interested in the trailer. We arranged to meet at a sandwich place near where I worked.

How could I be the kind of tough woman he wouldn't try to cheat? I relied on The Manual. I wore my 501s and work boots and a plaid shirt from the men's department at Penney's. My hair was one inch long-hand cut by me using my Swiss Army knife scissors. I looked as much like a prison matron as any college kid could without the advantage of cinematic shadows and lumbering cello music.

According to The Manual, lesbians walked like John Wayne, so I swaggered up to the restaurant nice and slow like. For the benefit of my trailer buyer or anyone else who might be watching, I drew up my saliva and aimed for the asphalt. Good thing The Manual also said dykes carry bandanas. I was just tucking mine back into my pocket when I saw him-husky, neatly trimmed beard, balding. His big hairy hand waved me in. I tried not to be discouraged by how much he looked like a prison matron.

I reached out and gave him a firm handshake, the way The Manual says dykes do. I ordered a steak sandwich, the most unladylike item on the menu. Our food came, and I slathered on the horseradish-something only very tough women eat, another tip from The Manual.

The guy wanted my trailer. It was time to talk money. I had rehearsed saying "Five hundred firm," in the tough, no-nonsense way I imagined a prison matron might say it. Surely this guy wouldn't expect anyone who could handle a sandwich like that to settle for less than her asking price. My plan was to wolf it down, prove I was no wimp, and get my $500. For maximum effect, I posed like John Wayne fixin' to eat a rattlesnake. Then I opened my mouth and took a bite.

"I'll give you $350 for it," the guy said

Just then the horseradish hit. My throat locked down like a scared sea anemone. Horseradish vapors ignited in my sinuses and exploded behind my forehead. I tried to tough it out, but no amount of willpower could keep my eyes from filling with tears. I looked away, tightened my lips and held my breath.

Apparently that is the exact same nonverbal communication device men use to signal agreement. The guy's big hairy hand slipped his check across the table. He got up to leave. I should have said something. No dyke in The Manual would just sit there and let some guy call the shots. But what could I do? I didn't want him giving me mouth-to-mouth. I needed him gone before I exhaled, or expired, whichever was going to come first.

Gone was my hope of getting $500. Also gone were my trailer, my trust in The Manual, and most of my mucous membranes. Fluid seeped from every hole in my face. I managed what I doubt was a very tough-looking nod. So long.

Sally Sheklow struggles to take life seriously. Send your fan mail to sally@wymprov.com